


the net accelerates away from you at x km/h

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:59:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “I know, I know,” says Daiki. “Everything humanly possible. But some things—”“Aren’t humanly possible,” says Shintarou.





	the net accelerates away from you at x km/h

Shintarou picks up on the third ring. He could have plucked the phone from his pocket or, more likely, had it sitting on the lass coffee table and waited. He won’t pick up before the third ring, even when he doesn’t have a game or a legit practice until next season. Daiki smiles; he’s mot sure if Shintarou thinks the bad luck carries over to other aspects of his life or that it piles up like interest on a savings account, but knowing him it’s probably not both. Everything with Shintarou operates according to his own axes of logic, and despite having known him for more than fifteen years Daiki still can’t quite put his finger on the methods.

“Hi,” says Shintarou.

“Hey, Baby,” says Daiki. “How’s Boston?”

“Cold,” says Shintarou. “We’re supposed to get another foot of snow tomorrow.”

“Nice.”

“How’s Chicago?”

“Just got here. It’s miserable, but no snow.”

Shintarou clicks his tongue, just audible through the phone; Daiki closes his eyes and pictures Shintarou sitting back against the sofa, somehow not messing up the cushions. His right leg is probably elevated at the exact angle that’s most medically sound (according to some consensus among his doctors and the team’s and his own independent research). If he were there, stranded in Shintarou’s high-rise to wait out the snow, he’d have two pizza boxes on the table and Shintarou’s hand to hold instead of the phone. Daiki doesn’t mind being here, really, good competition and decent food and all of that. But the longer the season goes the more he misses playing against Shintarou and the more he resents not getting to do it.

Obviously it hurts more for Shintarou; Daiki still gets to play the other 78 games where he wouldn’t be playing against Shintarou anyway, and the four that would be against him on top of that. The Celtics are still good without him, even though they’re not as fun, and that had started off as a good thing (Celtics team getting through the playoffs and Shintarou back and in the groove by the time the second or third round comes up and the Celtics play the Cavs) it’s quickly become less so as the timetable for Shintarou’s injury changes. It never moves up; it always moves back; Daiki can’t even tell how the fuck the doctors know this far in advance how long he’ll be out. But what had been maybe the last week of the season became maybe the second round, and that became maybe the finals, and that became probably not at all until next year.

Does it hurt more that the Celtics are doing well enough without him, and that the possibility of the third Cavs-Celtics conference final in a row seems better now than it did when they thought he’d be available to come back just before it? Daiki’s not going to ask; it’s slid up through his throat before but he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be asked about it. And Shintarou’s like him in this way; he’s not going to talk about it until he’s ready and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be asked. Not by Daiki, anyway. Maybe that’s just how most people are, but it sticks out to Daiki after three years of spending all day in the classroom and on the court with Shintarou and coming to the conclusion that there wasn’t one similarity between them—even if in the years since then he’s been proven wrong often enough.

At the time, in middle school, the distance between them had seemed uncrossable. Too far to bridge, not that Daiki had wanted to. Now, the distance is like the fracture in Shintarou’s leg, pushed together by expert means, held by stitches and staples and pins and splints, but still apart. Daiki clears his throat, though there’s nothing he can think of to say.

“I don’t want to write this season off,” says Shintarou. “There’s nothing I can do other than focus on next year, but—I want to come back.”

Daiki lets out his breath slowly. Injured and on edge, Shintarou’s still hard-pressed to say what he wants, no qualifications or justifications.

“It’s not lost,” Daiki says. “You’ve, uh, learned a lot about conditioning.”

Shintarou snorts. “Conditioning wouldn’t have prevented this from happening.”

“I know, I know,” says Daiki. “Everything humanly possible. But some things—”

“Aren’t humanly possible,” says Shintarou, his voice tightening, and Daiki’s shoulders clench in response.

Fuck. If he could be there to hold Shintarou’s hand—it might not make Shintarou feel better, but it might help Daiki feel like he’s doing something useful, even though he’s not. Putting himself at the center of all this is the opposite of helpful.

“I’m sorry,” says Daiki.

Shintarou sighs. “It’s not your fault. I don’t like settling.”

“No shit?”

“You don’t, either,” says Shintarou.

Another way in which they’re both alike—they can trick themselves into settling, but they never make their peace with it. Or they’re forced to; Shintarou will settle for a season of zero minutes and Daiki will settle for a season that doesn’t have a playoff series against Shintarou. They can manage their expectations, move the goalposts until they’re fucking cross-eyed, and nothing makes it better.  There’s no one to blame, nothing they can point to, but their disappointment weighs heavy on themselves and each other. Next year, the year after, the year after that, will make up the lost ground, but this is another gap in time that they could have had. Worse than when they were younger, because a year means more now.

“Miss you,” says Daiki.

“I miss you, too,” says Shintarou.

He sounds worn out, but Daiki might be projecting his own jet lag and discomfort through the phone line. He’s supposed to go out to dinner with some of the guys in about half an hour, but he might just beg off and order room service and fall asleep with his hand still on the handle of his mug of tea.

“I should let you go,” says Shintarou.

“I’m probably just gonna sleep, so I can stay longer,” says Daiki, stifling a yawn.

“Then sleep,” says Shintarou. “I’ll be here.”


End file.
